Angels In Everything
by 500NightsOfHolmes
Summary: DISCLAIMER- I do not own Sherlock. This is Sherlock in a common, gentler light. A behind-the-scenes view at Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson's life and the challenges they are brought. Read and Review please! You can leave some ideas you have for future chapters, opinions n the plotline- whatever you want :) Thank you guys xxx
1. November

Chapter 1

NOVEMBER  
It was a quiet morning in Baker Street. Speedy's Cafe slowly rolled open its shutters and the pavements outside were swept with a damp brush. Cabs sped past on the glistening tarmac, small droplets of water splashing onto the brushed down paths. They shone brightly in the morning sunlight against the deathly grey concrete. A short distance away, tires were screeching and horns were being honked loudly. The noises harmonized into a suitable, generic city soundtrack. Bicycle bells tinkles in the deep, motorized sounds bringing an uplifting spirit to the early Sunday Morning.

As the first customer of Speedy's tinkled their bell above the door, it wasn't long before Mrs Hudson was out collecting her paper. She scratched her head and let her eyes adjust to the bright Wintry sky. The bright sunlight stung her tired and sensitive eyes. With some effort, Mrs Hudson reached down to the pavement where a crisp and iced Independent sat. She gripped it in her warm, tired hands and retreated inside.  
As the black door to 221B Baker Street was closed with a loud thud and a chime from the knocker, a Black Cab slowly pulled up in Baker Street.

In the apartment above Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson was sitting on the setee, taking a casual read through his blog drafts. As sunlight grew brighter outside, the inside of 221B followed suit. The dark mahogany floorboards grew to a lighter chocolatey wooden colour. The maroon floor covering became a more enriched and inspiring matured scarlet shade, complementing the deep browns and greens in the furniature of Baker Street.  
Deep in the heart of the kitchen, Sherlock Holmes was brewing a pot of tea for his brother's timely arrival. Sherlock Holmes was a particular kind of man. His clothes were always set out the night before and his watch was synced up to Big Ben's clock tower to a tenth of a millisecond. But today in particular, this very sunny yet deceivingly cold day, Sherlock Holmes was instead draped in a white bedsheet and looking extremely disheveled and strained. John called from the living room, "You best get ready. Mycroft will be here soon". Sherlock muttered back a few infamous choice words of his before John quickly replied, "One day. Just, one day, you will meet your maker, Sherlock." Sherlock could only scoff as he slowly and steadily carried the pot of tea out into the crisp and bright living room.

China clattered on top of more china and the pleasuring sight of tea trickling out of the spout was a sensation to not only the eyes, but the ears. The copper toned brew had steam coming straight from the flow and into the mug which was rested on the oak table top. The gush of tea was abruptly stopped by Sherlock when the door of Baker Street was rattled. "Maybe today will be that day. You never know." John smiled at Sherlock before setting his laptop down on top of the coffee table to go and fetch the door.  
Sherlock slumped down into one of the two wooden dining chairs which sat on either side of the hardwood surface which had been piled high with multiple police files and biographies. Sherlock Holmes sighed quietly to himself as he sipped the molten liquid and let it run down his throat, heating his very core. He gazed out the window to the open London streets and counted his blessings that today was a work-free and serene day.

Footsteps slowly approached the door of Mr Holmes' living room and Sherlock bounced up out of his chair to take in the sight that was in front of him. _Small. Brunette. Help For Heroes T-Shirt (maybe just fashion to show a cause?). Large backpack and stuffed suitcase, obviously a traveler going by the state of her hiking boots. Her hair pulled back into a curled ponytail._ Sherlock felt it time to speak,  
"Now, don't tell me. You are John's travelling girl who happens to be a friend who has just come to town for a visit. Ah, you are a charity worker who seems to live off your tips but judging by your eighteen carat gold earrings, I'm guessing you come from money or you have just fallen into money. The tightness of your plait tells me that you may do charity work but you don't share the slums. You're put up in a Hilton somewhere in the hills. A real charity worker wouldn't have the time to apply her makeup as accurately as you unless it was for publicity. Need I go on?" Sherlock smiled to himself, satisfied with himself once again. The girl in the doorway seemed stunned and watched as John rubbed his forehead and Sherlock drew in a breath, "Really everything you're wearing is a giveaway. Your jeans; Topshop, twenty British pounds, bought and paid for here. The Help for Heroes necklace was clearly ordered and your jacket, obviously bought out of a mens clothing store explains your desire for a male role in your life you have evidently been missing for sometime-"  
"Sherlock. Stop it." John warned,  
"Judging by the way you hold yourself, you have been trained. You're not used to standing this tall in such a small company, a high ranking job on the side because charity isn't so fulfilling, I'm right aren't I?" Sherlock smiled again,  
"Dammit, Sherlock, this is my sister!" John raised his voice. He let out a very shaky sigh before continuing, "Victoria Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock blushed slightly and extended his hand in apology and welcoming. Victoria sat her duffel bag down on top of her case and crossed her arms before taking a deep inhale of the musty apartment air,  
"Sherlock Holmes. I only know your name but I see so much more" Victoria sighed and started to look him up and down. John felt it right to intervene,  
"Okay. It's nice to meet all of you. Sherlock, go put on your pants. Mycroft will be here very shortly. Come on, V. I'll put your bags in the spare room-" John went to lift her duffel bag before Sherlock stepped in,  
"No, no. Have my room. I don't sleep much anyway. Take it. It's yours."

It wasn't long after Sherlock and Victoria's unordinary meet before Mycroft made his way up to 221B. John and Sherlock sat adjacent to each other at the cluttered dining table whilst Mrs Hudson tottered about, trying her very best to organize Sherlock's scattered muddle. Behind the small group, Victoria sat comfortably upon the worn leather couch, slowly unpacking her belongings from her beaten and recycled suitcase. On the mahogany coffee table in front of her; t-shirts and dresses were laid out,  
"So, I'm assuming that Baskerville was a success?" paced Mycroft back and forth in front of the mantelpiece. John's younger sister just laughed in the quiet room before anybody else could reply to Mycroft's comment. Mycroft chuckled lightly, "Yes?".  
Not looking up from her suitcase, Victoria sassed, "You should never assume. It makes an ass out of you and me." Silence fell across the room and Sherlock's pale, thin lips broke into a smile,  
"_See_, Sherlock. Your maker."


	2. A Lumpy Old Sofa

Chapter 2

Deep in the heart of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock gazed aimlessly out of the frosted window onto the cold, wet streets of London below. Still draped in his morning robe at twelve o'clock, Sherlock sipped slowly at his tea cup with a hushed slurp.  
Victoria Watson has been residing in Baker Street for multiple weeks much to Sherlock's dismay. Victoria is found tedious and extremely challenging when going head-to-head with Sherlock when clients frequently visit their appointments in 221B. Sherlock refuses to bow down to Doctor Watson's sister yet he grinds his teeth just at the mere thought of her.  
Sherlock stretched to pick up his rustic violin and his worn down pencil before there was a holler from the kitchen. Not John's. It was _**that**_ voice. The grating, "We're out of food!"  
Sherlock swallowed slowly before turning upon his heels to face the warm, cozy living area. The pine kitchen cupboards were slammed shut and Victoria walked into the space Sherlock was assessing, re-instating her speech, "Didn't you hear me? We're out of food." Sherlock licked his lips and brought the bow to the strings. He flexed his neck before playing Vivaldi with a thin smile. Several notes echoed through the quiet apartment, gentle on the ears of all who were listening. Victoria was unable to handle Sherlock's cockiness and loftiness and burst out, "Sherlock! Don't ignore me. Oi!" spouted Victoria with her anger and frustration building. Abruptly, Sherlock stopped and shouted, "Then go buy some food if it's bothering your pathetic little brain that much!"  
His wallet was tossed at her and Victoria sharply turned and strutted out of 221B,"Oi! I won't be here when you get back! I'm going to Bart's. I won't be back for dinner so don't prepare anything. Don't wait up for me and definitely, do not text me!"

Many hours later as the city streets were black as pitch, Big Ben Tower chimed for one o'clock. In the streets, cabs were still speeding around and the city still seemed lively. Sirens raced up and down the streets outside of 221B Baker Street.  
Inside the small apartment, the only light was the warm, orange glow of the burning fire in the main living area. Its light ricochet off of all surfaces and the surfaces seemed to have a mind of their own, moving in quick-time and back again within the blink of an eye. Strong woods burned within the flames giving a smoky haze to the room.  
Sherlock sat, his face alight with the warm glow. Sherlock smoothed the tyer of his dressing robe, hypnotized by the way the flames danced merrily in front of his eyes,  
"Sherlock, what are you doing up?" the voice said from the edge of the door. Sherlock stopped petting and turned his head slightly, "Thinking" he replied quietly as his eyes narrowed for his next sentence, "why are you awake? It's the middle of the night."  
Victoria came into the light and took the armchair opposite Sherlock where her brother would usually reside, "I can't sleep. I keep tossing and turning. I'm uncomfortable in your bed. I feel bad that you're out here on a lumpy old sofa." She sighed into her hands, bringing her knees up to her chest. Sherlock scoffed quietly at the fire before Victoria jumped in again, "About what we were discussing earlier- y-your Christmas plans. Look, John and myself would feel much better if you came with us to Harry's. It's the thought of you being alone here on Christmas- it breaks my heart. Come with us, Sherlock. Nobody should be alone on Christmas." Victoria leaned across to Sherlock in the opposing seat and put a hand on his knee, "Please."  
"I won't be alone. I've mentioned this. Mrs Hudson will be here." Sherlock replied in monotone. Victoria sighed, retracting her arm and leaning back further into the armchair, "Tea?" questioned Sherlock as he jumped up from his seat. Victoria shook her head and gazed off into the amber flames. As Sherlock walked past her to the kitchen, she outstretched her hand to catch his hip  
"At least take your bed, Sherlock. It's the least you deserve for helping my brother. As a thank-you. And an apology from me. I haven't made it easy on you with my staying here." She quietly said up to the tall man, "Please. Take it back."


	3. Convince Me

DECEMBER  
In the deep blue night, thousands upon thousands of silver stars glittered in the moonlight and you would be able to see for miles, if it were possible. It was rare for this sight to take place in central London.  
Snow already lay on the ground, soft and plush but cold to your skin. Tracks were made on the roads of the streets and with the falling temperatures from the skies, the snow and pavement were growing more slippery and icy.  
Baker Street was buried deep in dense snow with only the windows and the glowing from within visible. From the brightest window, a deep sillhouette of a slender violinist with a head of defined curls. The shadow slowly and delicately played out a mellow rendition of Hallelujah.

Its final note shivvered out and the living room of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson broke into applause. Sherlock set the bow across his right shoulder and gave a sharp and shallow bow to his small, mish-mashed audience. Victoria and Lestrade clapped quietly in the kitchen before they helped eachother prepare mulled wine using Mrs Hudson's age old recipe. As the pair happily mixed wine with cinammon and several other spices, Lestrade struck up a conversation with Watson's very young sister, "So. You're going to- is it Harriet's? Am I right?" Victoria nodded, arranging a couple of glasses on a tray, "I wouldn't bother asking Sherlock. He never has plans. Mycroft just has a drink with him on Christmas Day and goes back to his club. I think he prefers being lonely." Lestrade chuckled quietly as Sherlock started for the kitchen.  
"Nobody should be alone on Christmas Day. I keep trying to explain that but Sherlock- and John too- He just doesn't listen to me." Victoria mumbled and poured the steaming burgandy beverage into tall frosted tumblers she laid out previously. Sherlock spoke from behind them both, "Don't take it that way. I don't listen to anybody. And Lestrade, alone protects me. Even on seasonal festivities."

Baker Street grew quietier into the early hours of the morning. Lestrade and Molly had left to regroup at their own flats before taking off in the morning to their various destinations. Mrs Hudson was fast asleep in her cozy little home underneath Holmes and Watson whereas John and Victoria were chugging down cups of tea before their Black Cab arrived to take them to Paddington Station. Sherlock wandered quietly and ninja-like with his violin at his neck. It was as if he was striving to put bow to strings but he just couldn't play. His wandering was excecuted like an art and Victoria was transfixed with his pacing. His hands craved music but they could not fore go the task.  
The fire was dying down as the Cab outside beeped its horn only once. John fastened up his jacket and gave Sherlock a hug before muttering, "Merry Christmas.".  
Reaching for his suitcase, John fastned his top button again and started to make his way slowly downstairs. Swallowing a large lump in his throat, Sherlock set down his bow and violin to help Victoria with her large suitcase but she spoke a few words only he could hear, "You can have your bed back now" followed by a chuckle. Sherlock smiled and bent down slightly as she gave him a hug,  
"Happy Christmas, Victoria." was all Sherlock could mutter before she pressed her lips to his left cheekbone. Sherlock's body was set alight into a warm, sharp pulse of energy all in those few precious seconds her lips were on his cheek. Sherlock become overwhelmed with desire as if her lips held a powerful antidote which could awaken your deepest desires from a millionth of a dose. His very core was warmed.

As Victoria pulled away from the slender-yet-built man in front of her, she felt warm hands on her shoulders, being only Sherlock in the flat with her. In a whirwind of seconds, Sherlock had his lips pressed on to hers. Victoria was tense in the heat of it all and yet, she continued to kiss back and give in. The Black Cab beeped its horn once again yet Victoria found it hard to pull away from the man she had loathed since the minute she stepped in the door. Sherlock was no different. Although his body was on fire, Sherlock couldn't stop pushing down onto her. This may have been a woman he hated from the very beginning but something inside of him wanted all of her, all day, every day.  
"Toria! Let's go, we're going to miss the train!" John hollered from the stairwell, "the snow's getting thicker!". Victoria ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and gathered her strength to pull away from Sherlock. Quickly, Victoria regained her breath and her face stroked the side of Sherlock's face. As a woman of many words, she was short, "I shouldn't of. I- I apologise, V-Victoria. Forgive me." Sherlock quietly muttered out. In a rush to pick up her suitcase, Victoria struggled for a sentence, "No, no, no. I-It's alright. It's fine. I- uh- I'm happy you did it." She smiled, quickly pecked his cheek and rushed down to where her brother was waiting.


	4. Rent

Christmas Morning

In the ivory London sky, sun rays struggled to beat through the thick, dense clouds which had been churning out snow for the past week continuously. White flakes fell delicately to the grounds of Baker Street covering both road and pavement, masking the prints of heavy boots and tire tracks. London was quiet and dim for the time of day and season. The streets would usually be lapped with tourists and busy business-people rushing for the Underground and cabs.  
Baker Street was quiet. Everyone was inside in the cozy warmth of a fire and steaming brews of tea. 221B was, of course, different. Sherlock Holmes sat beside the roaring fire of his and Doctor John Watson's flatshare. Despite the cold outside which came through in cracks of the battered window-sil, Sherlock sat still with only a dressing robe and pyjama bottoms on. Thin, frail fingers raked together in thought at his weak, pink lips.

Mr Holmes cleared his throat loudly and continued to think over Moriarty's heineous strategy's against him. Sherlock new precisely what James Moriarty was up to but never thought for a moment to let his colleague in on his brainstorm. And besides, Sherlock felt too proud and superior over his colleague despite their closeness and relativity.  
The thoughts started to give Sherlock a very negative overshadow in his mind. So many 'What ifs' and 'Maybes' raced around his head, distracting him from developing his plot further. However, Victoria, Sherlock felt, was different to John. Sherlock's hate slowly started to melt away from her a little bit at a time. A little bit everyday and the hatered and bitterness was almost completely destroyed when his lips were set to hers. But Sherlock never let his mind rest in that spot for any longer than five seconds. The great Sherlock Holmes could not get wrapped up in the schoolyard thoughts of a girl. A woman, even. He knew his happiness and pleasure in this area couldn't continue given Moriarty and of course, John.

Sherlock took his gangly hands away from his face when the door of 221B Baker Street was rattled. He looked towards the entrance to the living room and stared for a couple of moments until the door was battered again. From behind the wooden door, a voice shouted through to Sherlock,  
"Hello, Sherlock?! C-Can you let me in please?!" Sherlock sat upright promptly in his chair and widened his eyes. It was her. She wasn't to be expected on a day of family and love and joy. She wasn't to be seen wasting her time in Baker Street. Despite this, Sherlock nervously moved towards the entrance of his living area and Victoria was already making her way up the stairs, "I hope you don't mind. Mrs Hudson let me in-" her voice was caught short as she almost ran into him, "Oh. Sorry! Happy Christmas." Victoria smiled at Sherlock before being welcomed into the living area by Sherlock's guiding hand.

After taking the seat opposite her, Sherlock started to scan her and her belongings. The large black bag at her feet was filled with a large box which had been neatly wrapped in red, satin-like paper before being topped off with a moss green velvet ribbon. Of course, very expensive. Victoria wouldn't leave things half-hearted. Sherlock remained quiet as she unwrapped her scarf from her neck and shrugged off her damp, snowy jacket. His eyes were calculating, trying to work out exactly what she was here to discuss. It was as if the large bag wasn't the biggest clue for the consulting detective. Victoria brough her hair around one side of her neck and finally sat forward to Sherlock with a sigh, "Okay. Before you start; John and Harry don't know I'm here. They think I'm picking up cranberries so I'll have to be quick. A nice, fleeting visit."  
Sherlock scoffed whilst gazing off into the flames, "You really needn't be here." Sherlock mustered out quietly yet Victoria continued to smile. Victoria leaned forward to pick up the large box inside the black gift bag. It rested on her lap and her eyes studied it, trying to figure out what to say. Slowly, she started to talk, "I-I know we weren't meant to get you anything... But _I_ refused to let John buy you nothing. It's a gift from us both. I talked him around." Victoria looked up at Sherlock who was still looking deeply into the hot flames, "Christmas isn't Christmas without a gift from people who care."  
With that, Victoria extended the present slowly to Sherlock and his head turned to recieve the gift which had been expertly wrapped. The long thin hands grasped the heavy box and he took it into his lap. It was wide in size but shallow in depth. Sherlock's hand traced over the paper before slowly untying the bow. Her smile grew the closer Sherlock got to opening it. After minutes of ripping and pulling, Sherlock brought out a brand new, glistening violin and bow, "B-Before you say anything, money isn't a topic of conversation here. It doesn't matter what we paid. Just enjoy it. And, hey! Maybe you can play a new piece at New Year. Maybe." Victoria gushed with glee at Sherlock's dazed and shocked expression. He looked to her in thanks and set his gift down at his side. Sherlock pushed himself up from the armchair to hunt for Victoria's present. Quietly still in her chair, Victoria pulled an envelope from her small handbag and offered it to Sherlock when he returned with her gift, "I want you to take this. I don't want you to think of this as charity. I just hate thinking- that I, the youngest of my siblings, is put up in this glorious MoD home and my brother is struggling to make his ends meet. This is for both of you. The coming years rent." Victoria took Sherlock's free hand and set the envelope inside his palm, closing his fingers over on top of it. Sherlock grew stiff and his mouth went dry in shock. Her hands held his fingers in place as she struggled for the next sentence, "Seven-thousand six-hundred pounds. Please do not tell John. This is purely my gift to you both. For John because of his tired, exhausted struggle and for you... For helping him through that. He's almost semi-normal again." Victoria tried to laugh yet it fell flat in the silent room. Sherlock stared at his hand which was covered with hers. He was silent, "Sherlock, please. Don't turn me away on this. Take it. Keep it from John. Look after him."

For a second time, Sherlock cleared his throat and took the envelope shakily from her warm touch giving her an excuse to smile again. After setting the envelope down the side of the armchair, Sherlock extended his other arm with her gift, "It's, er- it's nothing. Just a little something. I had to ask, ha, er, Mycroft. I mean- ha, he's around you almost everyday. He knows what you like." Sherlock weakly smiled at her and brought his arm back quickly, "I can always return it if you don't-" his voice was drowned out by Victoria's phone going off,  
"Ah! Oh, I have to go. Sorry, I'm sorry. I'll open this at Harry's, Sherlock. I bet it's lovely." Victoria hurried to pull on her coat and put her small gift into her pocket. Her phone continued to go and pulled it from her bag, "I'm so sorry. We'll be home tomorrow, Sherlock! Have a great Christmas." She smiled at him and pecked the side of Sherlock's head before rushing to the door and answering her phone-call from John.

Sherlock started to stir in his seat hearing her leave the house. The thought raced around his mind. The thought of letting her in. Letting her know exactly what John and himself had been trying to keep her out of. Suddenly, the idea of avoiding Moriarty in conversation was sickening Sherlock to his very core. He desperately needed help and Victoria was the greatest asset Sherlock had. After all, she _was_ Sherlock.  
Sherlock felt a surge of energy run through him. This was the sight of a desperate man. He was quickly pushing himself from the worn armchair to face out the window and beckon for her to return to the flat. In the rush of opening the locks on the windows and pulling them open, the Black Cab outside was turning out of a bland, snowy Baker Street. Sherlock licked at his lips and slammed the windows closed before sinking to the ground in a panicked frenzy. What was he to do?


	5. Broken Glass

March

Sherlock fought his demon for months. Moriarty. The bane of Sherlock's existence was almost a sick pleasure. Sherlock liked to be tried but Moriarty always had to go the extra mile or two to make Sherlock slowly despise his guilty pleasure. Three months of to-ing and fro-ing proved an inevitable end for Sherlock Holmes.

On a chilly afternoon in March, Victoria Watson was making her way to 221B Baker Street in celebration of Mrs Hudson's sixty-something surprise party. The cold sunrays beat down on the bustling city which was none the wiser to the surprising brightness of the clear sky. John notified his youngest sister not long after she left Baker Street to aid Mycroft in a top secret investigation with Ministry of Defense. When Victoria was visiting Baker Street over Christmas and New Year, she found herself growing fond of Sherlock. Victoria felt her 'talent' as her brother called it, cut her off from many people but Sherlock brought her out of her shell. Being away with Mycroft made Victoria remember all the exciting things about her visit. Her day-long debates with Sherlock. Sherlock's intense explanations and lectures over the little things such as accidentally brushing past him and touching his scientific specimens.

As Victoria headed down the street slowly, a smile spread over her lips. The thought that she could see him and John again on such a great occasion. The thought that she can see the man who mentally challenges her and emotionally strengthens her made Victoria smile even wider.

With the London chill growing stronger, Victoria buttoned up her long trenchcoat and turned up her collar to the quickening breeze. Her heels made way on the pavement as her fingers dialed John's number on her iPhone. It was held to her ear for some time before it went to his voicemail. This was the last thing she needed. Turning up for a surprise and not knowing what time or where to be. As the skies grew darker, Victoria quickened her pace and dodged many men and women who appeared to be extremely busy. This slowly died down as Victoria reached St Bart's. Victoria took a quick look at the sky which had darkened dramatically from the last time she gazed upwards. Storm clouds brewed above the city, no sunrays even bothering to fight through. Victoria brought her phone out again to attempt another call to John. With her phone at her ear and the clouds rumbling, she juggled her bag and her umbrella.

Whilst fumbling with her umbrella, phone and handbag, it wasn't long until she would have to turn around and see the sight that was in front of her very eyes.

Her body went limp and her umbrella dropped from her hand. Her voice made no noise in her throat and her body started to grow cold. Without putting any thought to it, Victoria started to run towards the mess on the pavement, her coat and bag flailing against the increasing winds. The red, navy blue mess hadn't seemed to attract much attention. Time slowed down, "Sher- Sh-" her voice managed to croak as she knelt into the bloodied concrete and outstretched her pale, numb hand to touch his face. It was like marble against her delicate skin. Her core shook and her stomach slowly churned and she felt the churning follow up to her throat and back down like a yo-yo, "Sherlock...?" her voice tried again but there was still no reply, "Help!" she screamed. As Victoria saw people slowly approach after her beckon, she took his bloodied hand into hers and felt for a pulse as best as she could. There was nothing to her touch. No beat. Victoria leaned in close to Sherlock as she fought back a flood of tears. He appeared peaceful on the concrete. His porcelain skin against his deep dark hair Her head rested on his shoulder and she whimpered, "You can't be dead. Sher-Sherlock, you can't!" her voice grew quiet as more people approached the scene. Her hand gripped his lifeless one tighter than she had ever held anything before. Victoria felt hands upon her shoulders, trying to drag her from Sherlock's lifeless body. She looked to see John collapsed beside her and a nurse holding him against her legs. A doctor, again, had his hands firmly on Victoria, trying to peel her from Sherlock. Victoria used her free hand to take John's comfortingly. Paramedics quickly arrived to the scene of Sherlock's messy end with a stretcher waiting for him. Victoria became inconsolable when their connection was broken and his arm was left dangling against the stretcher. Her fallen hand went straight on top of John's like a magnet, the cold reflecting onto his skin.

Victoria pushed herself away from the large crowd and held the hand that was against Sherlock's skin to her mouth to prevent her vomiting into a drain. John stumbled backwards from the crowd and made his way, unsteadily to his sister who could only weep at the loss, "C'mon." John attempted to calm her with a tight grip on her forearm, "Let's go." mumbled John.  
Victoria squatted down to the ground and held herself against a lamp-post, her breath shuddering into the atmosphere. Her heart thumped in her ears drowning out the bustle of the suicide only metres away. Time slowed down once again and there was nothing she could have done to stop it. Slowly, her palms started to sweat and her mouth grew bone dry. Her stomach wretched when John's delicate hand rested on her back for comfort, "Wha- Why- How do we-?" John mused to himself quietly before Victoria pulled herself back up from the pavement with her bag firmly in a clenched fist, "We should tell Mrs Hudson." Victoria gradually spoke out to John who was now gripping at his jacket in sorrow and despair. Victoria took John's hand from his jacket and firmly held it in hers, "John. Home. We should go home." Calmly, Victoria led John to a nearby taxi, her hand still gripped onto his.

They rode home in silence. John gazed out of the window most of the way, recalling all their impromtu cases and cab rides. How they never had enough for the fares and how Sherlock would always find a way to get out of paying them.  
Victoria rigidly sat beside John, her face puckered for tears to fall whenever they felt it ready. However, she fought back for John's sake. She idly chewed the inside of her bottom lip and picked at her perfectly manicured nails in the hope of John opening up about his feelings. The last few metres of the journey were the longest. John continually sniffed back his thoughts and wiped his moist, raw cheeks. Some tears splashed onto Victoria's hand but she seemed none the wiser. Her head was overrun with the image of Sherlock's lifeless body. How he just lay at her feet. The most knowledgable man in England lay helpless. Bleeding out on the pavement, dependant on the aid of strangers. The thought of him lying on a slab brought Victoria to floods of tears just as they pulled into Baker Street. Mrs Hudson stood out front, waiting patiently for the Watson's arrival. The housephone was flush to her chest and her lips were clearly bitten out of fear and worry, "Where is he?! Sherlock! Where is he?!" she argued as soon as John set foot out of the cab. Victoria pulled herself out and took Mrs Hudson's arm gently, "_Where_ is he?!" repeated Mrs Hudson. John rubbed at his eyes before talking slowly to Mrs Hudson,  
"He won't be coming home. Not for a while anyway." Tears fell from Victoria's eyes as she slowly guided Mrs Hudson inside,  
"C'mon. Not out here." she quietly whispered to the housekeeper of 221B.

Once inside the shadowed apartment building, Mrs Hudson had her frail hand against the wall and another at her eyes. John stood beside Victoria. The lobby was silent apart from the shuddering and rickety breaths from Victoria, "Mrs Hudson, Sherl-" John started to speak before her recieved a sharp slap to his left cheek,  
"No!" screamed Mrs Hudson, "_**None**_of that! How dare you! Not in my house- in_ his _house!" she continued. John nodded and closed his eyes to hold back his tears. Mrs Hudson sniffed once and scurried away into her cozy little flat, slamming the door and locking it all within a second. Victoria led the way upstairs, her arms limp and her mind tired.  
The day went by slowly. The night followed suit. Quiet and painfully slow. Not a word was uttered between brother and sister. John sat in his arm chair with a glass of whiskey in one hand and Sherlock's revolver in the other. Victoria perched on one of the dining chairs with a glass of wine in her hands. Two bottles rested at her feet. Sherlock's chair remained empty, his shoe prints still visible on the mint leather from where he sat those rare times, glued to the television set, regularly shouting abuse which shocked John something awful. The sombre atmosphere was thick between the siblings who both stared at the leather armchair in silence.  
John tossed the revolver onto the chair and took a gulp from his warm glass before loudly pouring more into the empty container, "Shit." he whispered before the glass touched his lips again. Victoria sunk her wine and drained the third bottle remainings in a single mouthful. The air remained still and thick until John stood from his chair and launched his empty glass at the wall filled with bullet holes in a fit of rage. He flexed his fingers and picked up the two empty bottles at Victoria's feet, throwing one of them down the stairs to the front door and the other into Sherlock's bedroom. Both shattered with equal sadness echoing throughout the apartments. Victoria squeezed her eyes shut but she could only see Sherlock's bloodied face in the darkness. Her wine glass fell from her hand and she rubbed at her eyes to try and rid the image from her brain, "I'm going to bed." huffed John and he flexed his fingers again with a rough crack.  
Victoria was left idily standing in the centre of the living room, broken glass at her feet and red stain at her lips. Her heart was shattered more than before. John slammed his room door shut and tossed himself onto the bed. She listened closely before retreating to Sherlock's room to clean the glass.


	6. Creature Of The Night

_sorry it's a bit shit._

MARCH

All was quiet in Baker Street. The roar of the London streets were dulled to a low hum from 221B. The skies were clear above them, few clouds gathering and passing street was grey and narrow and cold to anybody who entered. To anybody who hadn't heard about the 'accident' as Mrs Hudson called it. Every Baker Street resident knew it was no accident. It was a suicide.

John Watson was perched upon his armchair with a glass of whiskey in his right hand. His fingers traced the crystal pattern upon the glass as Victoria scurried about the kitchen preparing dinner. Mrs Hudson took papers and books from Sherlock's armchair and filed them into boxes to take to charity stores. The atmosphere was thick with sadness and mourning. Dishes clattered in the kitchen and the egg timer rang out throughout the apartment, "Alright. Sit down! Take a seat!" Victoria pressed as she dished up the small roast pigeon onto the cleared dining table, "Sit, come on. It'll get cold." she argued with John and a tender hearted Mrs Hudson. Victoria pushed back into the kitchen to pour tea and gather cutlery, a sad smile plastered across her face.  
Mrs Hudson and Victoria quietly ate away at their meat and vegetables whilst John just pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, his fork weighing down his hand as if it weighed a ton. They had only ever eaten together on John's birthday, and even then, it was only a takeaway with Sherlock calculating every box of food on the table as if there was some remnant of poison within. It was far too quiet for everybody. It was far too empty. Nothing was the same for anybody. Mrs Hudson had only ever had one full night sleep since Sherlock's fall. She had hated it. Her body was used to being awoken by gunshots and violin instrumentals. John missed how Sherlock would always barge in as he slept to vent some vital information to make himself feel better. It was something John may have hated and despised at the time but with Sherlock gone, he now slept lightly, waiting, wondering if Sherlock would step foot in his room again. Too much had happened so quickly for the small and collective family.

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat from the dinner and sipped at her hot tea before speaking, "I think you should say something tomorrow, John. It'll be nice." her stiff voice was monotone and John gazed upwards at her from the table. His head slowly started to shake, "I-I couldn't. I-I barely knew him." John excused. Mrs Hudson's slight smile fell, "I'm sorry, I just didn't know him as well as anybody else... Mycroft should say something."  
Victoria slowly raised her head and swallowed her food harshly,  
"Er, M-Mycroft won't be going,I already checked that."  
The room fell silent and John slammed his now weightless fork onto the table, "M-Molly said she'd attend but wouldn't hang around for long. She said she has to get back in time for her lunch break- making up for her lost time, I think." Victoria tried her best to soothe John in any way possible but John wasn't accepting any of it. His face grew redder and redder until he couldn't bear to stay in Baker Street any longer. He pushed away from the table and grabbed his jacket from the coatstand at the door. Without looking back, he shouted, "I'll be back in time for the funeral. I have my key!"  
Victoria wildly blinked back her tears. She had never witnessed this dark and angry side of John before. Not for a while anyway. Not since Harriet fell off the wagon for a second time. It was times like these when Sherlock was needed in the house. A cool head for a hot situation. Victoria thought it was best to leave her brother be for the time being. If he said he would be back for tomorrow, John will stick by that. John was a man of his word in these kind of events.

Mrs Hudson helped Victoria clear up the kitchen and dining table before retreating back to her little cozy flat below. Victoria was left alone in the fire flickering against the walls. Her shadow darted about the room as she slowly moved toward Sherlock's armchair with a mug of tea in her hands. The thought raced around her mind whether or not to sit where he sat. To try and move on. _If John was here _she thought with tears brewing up in her eyes. _If __**he **__was here I wouldn't be deciding what chair to sit in. _She now wept at her lonely thoughts of Sherlock. Victoria steadily moved closer to his green leather armchair and placed herself down gently on it. Bluntly, she coughed to hide her crying to Mrs Hudson only a spitting distance away. Her feet were brought up onto the chair and her tea was set down so that she could hug her legs tightly to her chest. Tears fell silently onto her knees and the sky grew a deeper shade of black with each sniffle. She missed his arrogance. His sleepy morning look and his rare smile most of all.  
As time passed, Victoria slowly started to give up on tears and instead gazed into the bright orange glow of the log fire. Her mind silenced itself as she drifted off into a slow and calm sleep after few hours of staring.

The locks of 221B rattled around in the quiet of the night. Footsteps slowly creeped into the house, sure not to wake Mrs Hudson. Hands scrunched into pockets and coat pulled tight around. The house was silent. Faint breathing came from the living room. Steps got closer to the warm and welcoming domain where she lay resting. Peaceful and without worry. Her brows were loosely knit together and her eyes moved behind her lids. She was in a deep dream. The sudden creak of the floorboard made the motions slow to almost a stop. She lay calmly and her brew of tea steamed no more on the ground. The pain she had been caused was almost invisible on her face. In dreams, she was as good as amicable. Her fingers still entwined with eachother and her feet close to slipping off the edge of his chair. It was a sight to behold and memorise. Seeing her so relaxed and oblivious to the presence in the room. Should she have awoken at any moment, everything would have unravelled around Baker Street. It was an extreme risk to be around the street but it couldn't have been helped. It was an aching that had to be cured. She was viewed from almost all angles to make the image last. The door of the flat was pushed open with a quiet squeak. Briskly, footsteps pushed into Sherlock's bedroom and the door was pushed over. His bedroom was pristene. The sheets had never been slept in since. The curtains had never been drawn again. The ground which they stood was scuffed with glass shards and patches of alcohol lay untouched and still shiny. John stumbled up the stairs of 221B and brought the smell of expensive bourbon with him. He sniffled as though he had been crying but his sound was not heard for long. The door of his bedroom was closed firmly and the springs of his bed screeched as his body fell onto it.  
Slowly, Sherlock's room door opened and a final gaze of Victoria was taken. The stairs were quietly approached once again and the door of 221B was locked firmly.

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	7. Homeless

(AN/ SURPRISE EARLY UPLOAD! I COULDN'T STOP WRITING AND BRAINSTORMING!  
This was written at, like, 3am so I apologise for cliche's and portraying my strange fantasies x.) 

Late November  
A year later

Lay in thick snow, Waterloo Road was quiet. In the second from top flat of the pristine apartment building, Victoria Watson sat inside getting ready for a night out with some Government officials. Few cars drove by the street, their engines roars muted with the dense snow on the ground.

The dark sky was hidden with grey clouds which continuously churned snow. Debating wether it would be approapriate to ruin her new Louboutins, Victoria stared out of her living room windows at the blizzard picking up on the banks of the Thames. She gazed over at her new shoebox and then back to the windows_. I __**could**__ get a cab_ she thought, _I could just get a taxi. _Her brain tossed around ideas and plans to make her social ends meet and eventually, she settled on the cab idea.

Victoria swanned around her apartment, zipping up zips and buttoning buttons when she was attracted to a scene outside. Flipping her hair back onto her shoulders, Victoria headed towards her kitchen window where the silence was being disturbed. Glancing downwards to the streets below, Victoria was filled with rage. An old homeless man being mugged by a young gang in the darkness. She raced to her front door and grabbed her keys before rushing down the fire-escape to the glistening white lobby. The glass doors to her apartment building was pushed open and the bracing blizzard hit her, destroying all of her makeup and hair. Her clothes were soaked through and her feet were blue and Victoria hadn't even stepped outside. Victoria shouted several times at the youths and pushed towards the old homeless man, her arm wrapping over his back as she fought off a youth with another hand. "It's okay," Victoria reassured the man during the violence she was springing onto the gang, "It's alright. I have you."  
Moments fluttered by and the gang was laughing and chortling down the street, joking with the gang member Victoria fought off single-handedly. Victoria gripped the homeless man's hand and shoulder and guided him inside to her building. She nodded at the receptionist who imediately handed over plush towels and a complimentary dressing gown and slipper set. As the items were tucked under her arms, the homeless man refused to look up from the ground when standing in the elevator beside her. Victoria didn't know what to do or say to the man who remained silent on their journey up to her apartment.

Once inside, Victoria sat the homeless man down on the edge of her bed with the building's complimentary items. The homeless man held the plush fabrics in his long, delicate hands, stroking each loop of cotton with precision and passion. He continued to stare down, his face shadowed by his dirty beanie hat. She got up to leave him to it, but knelt beside him first, "Would you like to do this on your own? Are you able to? Do you want me to stay?" Victoria queried in a soft tone and a gentle smile. The man shook his head, still silent. Victoria chewed at her lip before looking back up at the man. It was now evident, in the light of her bedroom that the man was bleeding. Shock took over her. It was bad. As she closed her eyes to invent a sensitive approach to the man's injury, the image flashed into her head. The blood. The pavement. John at her side. Sherlock's body lying in front of her. It scared her, made her shake and almost fall backwards onto the floor. Her eyes opened wide and she blinked away the horrible image she had avoided for a long year, "W-Would you like me to-?" she gestured towards the blood. Again the mans head shook and Victoria slowly and carefully left the room.

Victoria sat in her second bathroom with a glass of wine and her head in her hands as the homeless man got dressed in her bedroom. So long she had gone without the thought of him. She felt empty all over again. Victoria sniffed away her feeling of the dead detective as she heard movement from the kitchen. Victoria grabbed her small first aid kit from under the bathroom sink. Her kettle boiled louder as her footsteps grew nearer, "D-Do you still want me to sort your head? I have some bandages." Her voice was a slow and sharp whimper, her hands shook as they firmly gripped the medical kit. The homeless man sat with his back to her in the soft white robe. His feet were bare and surprisingly clean against the bar stool. The mug beside him was steaming with tea. Victoria forced herself to put the first aid kit down and turn the homeless man around but as she went to release her grip from the box, the bar stool turned and there he sat. The blood still on his face, his hair sticking to the wound. His grey eyes bright and his lips still thin. Victoria smashed the first aid box down onto the kitchen counter before sharply smacking her hand off of his cheek. Victoria stumbled backwards in shock as his cheek grew pinker and redder. Her mouth went dry. No words could have been made. He sat atop the stool, guilt on his face, "I'm so sorry."  
"NO! You're supposed to be six-feet under! You're supposed to be dead!" Victoria screamed and rubbed her eyes, believing this was all a horrible dream. Her head shook several times and Victoria looked up at him with her hands pressed to the side of her temples, "S-Sh- No. This isn't real!" she remarked in a harsh tone. Tears were brewing clearly in her eyes and with a second look at him on the stool, the tears flooded her face, "How could you have done that?" she wept at him, "We couldn't cope for weeks! Where were you when you were meant to be dead?! Where were you, Sherlock?!" Victoria was now completely unstable. The anger and sadness swelled her heart until it was fit to burst through her chest. Her throat ached from the tears and her lungs grew sore from her sharp breaths. He sat still for a second before stepping down to stand in front of her,  
"I was with Mycroft. I travelled for a while. Only he and Molly knew."

Victoria stared up at him and her bottom jaw stiffened, "_Mycroft_?! _Mycroft_ knew?!" she stammered and pushed herself away from him, "The man I work with everyday?! The man who told me to '_forget_' knew all about his little brother's plans?!" She was now laughing with anger. Victoria was delirious with this tidal wave of emotion,  
"I tried to tell you, Victoria, I did! But by the time I looked out of the window you were gone! You were leaving for Harriet's! I was going to tell you first!" he argued back, following her with the blood starting to ooze with his high pressure. Victoria had her arms across her chest and a hand at her throat. Sherlock's eyes pleaded with hers desperately,  
"I should be so lucky." She seethed with sarcasm before pointing, "John is crushed! Mrs Hudson doesn't know what to do with herself! All because of you not telling u-"  
"If I didn't jump, you, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would have been assasinated. You all would have died if I had turned to cowardice! I _saved_ your lives!" he fought back harder than before which only made Victoria cry more,  
"I was beside you! You were dead in front of me. You were cold as ice, Sherlock! I could feel you, Sherlock." The room grew quiet and only Victoria showed her inner thoughts. The tears stained her face and she walked closer to him, her arms dropping from her chest and going to snake around his back in content, "I'm happy you aren't dead, Sherlock" Victoria whispered into him. Slowly and unsteadily, Sherlock raised his arms to hug her back.

He relished the thought of having her this close after all that time apart. It wasn't the same passing as a cab driver or a fruit-stall attendant. There was never the same chemistry as being within her space that he knew on a personal level, "Would you like me to stitch your head, you know, if you're still incognito?" Victoria muttered, sniffing back some leftover tears. Sherlock nodded yet didn't want to let her go.  
He sat on the edge of her couch whilst she perched on the edge of the coffee table, an LED makeup mirror lighting his face in the slowly darkening room. She disinfected, swabbed and numbed the left of his hairline, "So, why did you have to be homeless?" Victoria questioned, threading up her needle with care. Sherlock slightly scoffed and prodded around his numbed wound, wincing as his fingers traces the gash,  
"I couldn't have just came up here. People would see. They'd ask questions. It's their nature. Knowing other people's business." Sherlock sighed and kept his face straight as she started to stitch his gash back together, "I knew you'd come down and get me. I knew you'd take me in and fix me. You're a carer. Wether it was me or a stranger, you wouldn't be able to help yourself." He laughed and winced again, feeling the tug at his skin. Victoria smirked and pushed her glasses further up her face, inching closer to the edge of the table and closer to Sherlock's wound. A few moments passed of silence,  
"You need to tell John, Sherlock. He has to know. If Molly and Mycroft-" Victoria started to plead. Sherlock shook his head slightly, ensuring not to mess up the stitches,  
"I can't. I'm waiting for the right time. I should wait for this to heal first before I get a fist to the face!" smirked Sherlock. Victoria pulled away a little bit to hide a laugh but was caught by Sherlock. His smile grew at her disappearing anger and fear,  
"So, you had to find a group of teenagers and ask them to bash your face in?" questioned Victoria,  
"No, no. Homeless network. Good friends of mine. They done it to entice you, shall I say." Sherlock quietly said, "It worked."

Victoria slowly finished her stitching and placed her needle back into it's packaging before swabbing over the area again. Sherlock took her wrist gently as she went to retract it and placed it on his cheek delicately. Her thumb went over his cheekbone several times and rubbed over his eyebrow, "It's been quiet, Sherlock." Victoria murmered with a weak smile, "Please don't scare me like that again. Don't scare _us _like that again." She gave a small chuckle and Sherlock's hand covered over hers which was still at his face,  
"I am sorry, Victoria. It was all to save you and John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Your grief had to be real." Sherlock felt bad within himself. How he could have arrived at Harriet's on Christmas Day to tell her exactly what was going to happen. Guilt was ripping over Sherlock. It had been tearing him apart since the first day of his abscence, "I'm so sorry. I can't say it enough. I should have never came here. A mistake. This whole thing." Sherlock dropped his hands from hers and pulled away completely til his back hit against the couch,  
"Sherlock, stop that. It's good that you're here. This is a good thing, Sherlock." Victoria pushed off from the coffee table until she was at his legs, "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."  
Slowly, Sherlock lifted his head to look at her, "Don't. I'm not meant to be here. I should go."  
"Sherlock Holmes you sit your arse down. You are staying here with me wether you like it or not. At least until your head has healed and then you can leave and I'll forget you were ever here." Victoria brought herself up to lay beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, "Look, I'm meant to be going out tonight with some officials but I'm going to call them and we'll have some dinner and talk. You look famished. I'll get you some proper clothes too if there's a store open." Victoria soothed and put her forehead to his shoulder, "Actually, I think I have some of John's old stuff in the back of my wardrobe."  
Sherlock smiled a little bit and rested onto his back so that her forehead was now on his bicep, "You do too much for a dead man." He joked and Victoria got to her feet,  
"Look, it's good to see you a bit more relaxed and human. Please, make yourself at home, Sherlock. You don't have to worry about anything here." smiled Victoria before making her way through to her bedroom in search of her brother's old clothing. She dug out some old jumpers and sports tracksuits, just about the right size for Sherlock. Bunching them up into her arms, Victoria carried the clothing through to the living area where Sherlock rested on the couch. His eyes fluttered with fatigue and he jolted when the clothes were set at his side,  
"It's not very Burberry or Harrods, but it'll keep you warm I should hope. Keep you comfortable," Victoria arranged some of the clothes onto the coffee table but Sherlock didn't seem keen,  
"Victoria..." he muttered. Victoria was busy folding jumpers with a small smile,  
"Yeah what's the matter?" she looked up to see Sherlock's face inches from hers,  
"I don't want to have dinner. I don't want the clothes." his voice rasped at her neck,  
"Sherlock..." Victoria turned back to the clothing with a small head shake. His breath continued to swirl down her back and around her hairline. His breathing was silent but the chill gave her goosebumps. Her mouth went dry and the jumpers were set down at her feet. Immediately she turned and her nose brushed his,  
"I've seen you. Walking to and from MoD. I've been within touching distance of you and you've never even noticed" Sherlock whispered quietly to her giving her more goosebumps and a tension building in her stomach. She could feel herself get ready to lunge forward but something was stopping her. The thought of John. If John was to ever know. 

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